This is my view at work:It is open and bright, which brings to mind a museum or an art gallery, except there is nothing on the walls at all, and the only things in the room are me, my desk, and a sad fern in the corner. Sorry. I'm bored just typing that. Moving on.
Now that summer has settled in and every manner of creature is running amuck, all sorts of drama unfolds in front of those windows. Spiders seem to love this spot and every morning, I have to clear a web or six away from the doors, although I can't reach the highest corners.
The neighborhood sparrows are cool with this, though, because whatever spiders I can't dispose of are their snacks. All day long they clatter at the base of the metal doors and hover in the corners, pecking at the elusive spiders until they have to drop to the ground. What the sparrows really need is a hummingbird's structure and heart rate, but they make do, swooping in and out.
Once in a while, one will land in the crook of the door handle and perch there, give the glass a rattling peck, and lift away again. What's even better is when one swoops in and comes back with a shred of cobweb stuck to its beak, and proceeds to completely freak out, flailing around like a toddler with scotch tape clinging to her fingers. Who hasn't experienced the trauma of blindly walking into a spiderweb in the woods?
I guess what strikes me is that we humans have to keep up our structures and living spaces constantly, because the moment we stop, the moment a building is abandoned or forgotten, nature begins the slow and unrelenting process of reclaiming it. It may take a while, but sun and wind and moisture and critters take our roofs and walls apart brick by brick. The spiders and sparrows would carry on their wee food chain contentedly, with or without my comings and goings every day.